Drag
by Nyx6
Summary: In a world where electricity is fast running out, best friends Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns are just trying to stay afloat. Making towns and scoring provisions the only way they know how. By using their fists. Well, their fists and other less talked about methods. It's a funny story really. It's also all Dean's fault.


**So, welcome to this random oneshot. Please don't ask where this one came from, because honestly I have no idea! Not going to lie though, I actually kind of love it, so I hope you do too.**

***Crosses fingers and toes***

* * *

**Drag**

In the bigger, busier cities they sometimes have shows still. Or occasionally run an old time movie franchise out, which is always a draw for the local population since it means something different from sitting staring at blank walls. It has to be an _old time_ movie franchise mostly, because Hollywood isn't making the blockbusters anymore, since nobody has the money left to pump into them, or the necessary power to fuel the cameras and lights.

If a city is _really_ lucky – or more likely, one of the bigger ones – then the theatre might even wheel the original actor out, to answer questions and to give a kind of _star_ vibe in a way that real life has lacked and _then_ some, since the electricity started to run down.

Plus, even old movie stars need a way to earn a living and reliving their heyday is as viable as not.

In _these_ sort of locales though, the wrestling game is seen as boorish and right at the bottom of the entertainment scale. Places on the cards too are competitively fought for and more likely than not already filled by old names and guys who had made a pretty neat career from tussling before all the lights began switching off countrywide.

_The Power Saving_ _Protocols._

Roman remembers the name for them and also how quickly they had changed his happy world. From one which had lightbulbs and the internet and _hot water_, into one fuelled by candlelight and loss of contact across the globe. Big cities are the only spots where power is switched on still, but even _then_ only at certain points and specific times. It's still enough to make them horribly packed though, by people trying to eke out something resembling normal life and is therefore just one of the reasons he avoids them and the hollowed out memories of how the world was.

And it's also the reason they stick mostly to the backroads and the tiny little towns where there is little else to do, with the exception perhaps of fighting pitbulls or roosters and where wrestling is still the unassailed king of the sports.

"Damn it – ,"

Roman curses then swerves around a pothole, which he has managed to not notice in his retrospective state and it makes the little camper pitch up a damn _bitch fit_ and then creak like the thing is about to fall apart. In the back their limited collection of pans rattles and the well-used skillet clatters down onto the floor and beside him a pair of boots slides clean off the dashboard, as the man in the passenger seat lurches back into the world.

"Huh? Fuck. _Wha_ – what's goin' on uce?"

Dean is blinking in mussy haired alarm, with his blue eyes sluggish beneath the wisps of copper blondeness and his body swaying slightly as he braces against the door.

Roman winces,

"Pit in the road babe, sorry."

In real terms it shouldn't be much of a surprise, since near enough every damn road they have travelled is potholed, or else has fallen into disrepair long ago.

"Oh," Dean shakes his head then sniffs himself to wakefulness, unfurling his long limbs a little like a cat, pawing the sleep from his eyes too roughly and then groaning his way through the startlement, "How far out?"

He sounds completely wiped, but it isn't surprising since he had taken the night shift that had got them from the south, not to mention the beating from the show the day beforehand, when the beefcake they were fighting had decided to bring a wrench. Evidently the big dumbass had been decidedly unhappy at the fact that he was losing to a copper headed loon and had chosen to even the score up brutally with a couple of swipes before the bell had rung out. Dean has a bruise sitting stark beneath his left eye, with likely a _heap_ of concussion on top and it makes the bigger man glance at him appraisingly beneath the guise of offering a status report,

"'Bout an hour away. You still got time for some shuteye. Why don't you go and lie down in the back?"

"Nah, m' good, wanna keep sharp for this evenin'. M' like a predator y' know? Sittin' waitin' in a bush an' hopin' some deer is gonna walk out all like, easy an' then – _bam_ – that's it man, lightnin' fast."

He throws his hands forwards like he's grabbing at something to underline his obvious deadly intent, but it falters when his bigger teammate puts a casual hand out and taps it with accuracy against the growing purple welt, while at the same time keeping his eyes on the potholes that he is still trying to wrangle their creaky beast around.

Dean hisses at him and then violently jolts backwards,

"Ouch – the _fuck_ was for?"

"Just seein' if it hurts."

"Did you forget that I got creamed in the face with a _tool belt_? Like pliers an' hacksaws or whatever the hell it was? I swear that guy was like a jacked up mechanic on like, steroids or somethin' an' – ,"

"It was a wrench."

Dean ignores his teammate pointedly, then resumes his position with his feet up again. He is hugging his arms in close around his middle, which is likely the result of some mildly injured ribs, but is probably also because it's the middle of winter but they can't use the heater without burning through the gas. So instead he pulls his beanie down lower, then fists his fingers into his leather jacket sleeves, bundling himself up like some adorable burly munchkin and making the older man blow out a fond snort.

"I mean _of course_ my eye fuckin' hurts dude, I can barely _see_ over here – ,"

"So why not put your head down?"

"Because like you said man, we're practically there now."

"Got plenty of time."

"Okay then, m' not tired. _That_ a good enough answer for you asshole?"

It's a factor of their relationship that the smaller man is childlike. Or at least sometimes _can_ be if truly pissed off. But he can also at strokes, be murderous and playful which means, in short, there is no one like him in the world.

Roman rolls his eyes,

"Right, you just keep on repeatin' that."

Both of them lapse into silence again, although likely not the _silence_ that most people think of, thanks to the copper's blonde tendency to tap his thumbs and beat out frantic little rhythms on flat surfaces to a tune in his head that he only _sometimes_ hums.

It goes like that for another forty minutes –

Roman has never really minded it much though, since the drumming has over the five years of their friendship, come to be a _comforting_ sound. Like rain on glass or trickling water, because in essence it's a normal and _best friend_ sort of sound.

"So look – ," Dean speaks again as the treeline falls away from them and begins to reveal a small smattering of homes, little wooden squares slowly clustering together around fallen down power lines and more broken asphalt as well. Once upon a time they were probably nice houses, but now they're just buildings on the way into town and like a million others they have passed through on their travels, but which will never _not_ still be heart wrenchingly sad.

Roman stares ahead,

"Yeah?"

"'Bout this match I got you booked for – ,"

_Uh oh_.

No good sentences start out like that and nor do the hesitant tones much help things, for all that Dean tries to bury them deep in a shrug.

"M' gonna tell you now so that you don't get – like – _blindsided_, but the guy who runs the venue is kinda expectin' some extra _stuff_ an' somethin' I told him totally wouldn't be a problem. Except for the fact that we don't have it an' I lied."

"What kind of _extras_?"

"Don't worry, I got a plan uce."

Roman can't help but heave out a sigh, because frankly they have driven too far to turn back now and he also figures he won't like whatever _it_ is.

Dean waves a hand,

"But I mean, like, _trust_ me – I totally got this brother, okay?"

Roman grunts back at him but chooses to say nothing because the rundown little shacks are tapering into wider streets and he needs to try and locate the venue, where the _whatever_ Dean has promised the promoter _won't_ be. His best friend helps by pushing himself forwards and then peering into every last building they pass, occasionally glancing to the paper between his fingertips on which he has scribbled a few unhelpful directions down.

"There – ,"

Dean points and the bigger man follows, pulling their camper into a gap beside a church that bumps them down into a square, fenced off compound with chain link doors that two men open up. Both of them are old and distinctly sort of grizzled, as well as being armed with pretty large guns, which make Dean lift his too expressive brows up until they practically get lost beneath the copper blonde fuzz,

"Real friendly neighborhood they must have themselves round here for those two to be packin' an armory like _that_. Unless maybe they're expectin' the zombie apocalypse, which would totally be cool 'cept for the bitin' an' shit."

Roman shrugs back, but not about zombies.

"Probably protecting the fuel I guess. Which we _are_ gonna be getting at least _some_ of tonight right?"

He turns in the cramped little cab of their camper to fix his quirky partner with a questioning look and in return Dean snorts a little in effrontery and then spreads his hands out as if to say, _well duh_.

"Uh, this isn't my first rodeo, y' know dude? Sure we are, we're gettin' gas and food."

"No money?"

"He said he doesn't have a lot goin', an' lookin' round the place I'd say that wasn't a lie."

"So what exactly _was_ it that you told him you could offer?"

Dean's answer is cut off by the creaking of the gates as the chain link doors are swung back into place behind them and then locked by one of the gun-wielding men. Parked up around them are a few random vehicles, which at first glance Roman doesn't recognize at all. In their line of work, paths tend to cross often, but if the rides are an indication then it's a totally unknown card.

In front of them a large wooden building stands proudly and at first sight he guesses that it was maybe once a barn and is therefore no better, or worse, than other venues that they've had to ply their trade in at various times. Footsteps crunch across the gravel towards them and so reaching in, Roman winds the stiff window down, painting on a thin but genuine expression as one of the humbug security grandpas shuffles in,

"Names?"

In response Dean knocks into Roman in his haste to hang over and take the reins of things himself, forcing the bigger man with a grunt against the chair back, like the overgrown god damn puppy he is.

"Hey man, y' got Ambrose an' Reigns, ready t' rumble. Spoke to your scout fella couple a' days back."

In response the grizzled doorman merely blinks in confusion, like he genuinely doesn't know what they're talking about and which doesn't fill Roman with a flood of reassurance, since using scouts to find business can always be sketchy thing. Mostly they are men loosely employed by a promotion to hang in skeevy bars and find unbooked wrestling types, before pushing them vaguely in the direction of a county with the offer of money or sustenance or fuel. But they have both of them heard stories of performers being jumped on, after having been lured out to a place on the sly and so like always he has one foot on the gas pedal and is ready to punch it at the first hint of danger signs.

Instead the old guy waves a hand wearily,

"Alright, park 'er up and get ready for the show, matches kick off any minute now fellers and you're second up."

Dean grins,

"No sweat gramps."

If the older man hears the cutesy moniker however, then he skillfully ignores it in a narrow probing of his eyes, which he throws around the cab before peering right in through the window like he's looking for something.

"Hey, where's your girl at?"

Roman frowns,

"What girl would that be?"

Dean leans over him hastily and elbows him in the groin as he pumps the window roller up, before throwing in a chirpy and _far_ too bright sounding chuckling.

"Yeah alright man, thanks. It's all good."

He keeps on grinning until the glass slides into place again, at which point the old man heaves a huffy breath out and then turns and crunches his way across the gravel, with a low and very unimpressed type of murmur that they can't really hear but which is probably not good.

Roman narrows his brows in suspicion,

"Uce, you wanna tell me what he was talking about just then?"

Dean shrugs casually but refuses to look over, since instead he seems suddenly intent on the dash, in the form of a faded little sticker above the blower that's been there the whole year since they got the damn thing. He's trying to pick off the glue with his nail stubs while pretending he isn't listening. Which doesn't really work.

"Huh?"

"What was his ass doing asking us 'bout girls for?"

In response to him Dean sort of waves an airy hand, then clears his throat while shrugging his bouncy shoulders in a total loss of grip on the concept of _play it cool_.

"Oh uh, the thing is the guy who runs the joint here _kinda_ likes performers to have a valet, y' know? Like somethin' the poor sex starved masses can look at an' jerk off to or whatever else it is they like to do. _Real _nice neighbourhood if that wasn't made clear earlier but apparently it's kinda a pretty big deal. Dude doesn't let guys wrestle without one – ,"

He tails off idly and Roman blinks,

"We _don'_t have one."

Behind them the church bell chimes out loudly, but they've been in enough places to know that worship isn't the pull and instead the sacred bells are most often used like speakers, to call the braying masses to the evening wrestling show.

Dean gives him a prod,

"Look man, I'm gonna fix this, but we're not fightin' _anyone_ with you dressed like that, so you head in back an' get that head of yours in game mode an' let _me_ worry about tryin' to find us a pair of tits."

Roman rolls his eyes,

"I'd maybe call 'em something nicer."

But in spite of the riposte he rises from his seat and shuffles his way past the bathroom and the kitchen, where he stops very briefly to pick the skillet back up. Beyond the sink and cooker lies a raised up little platform which houses the double, but very obviously _only_ bed and also a selection of hidden little cupboards where their paltry belongings and ring clothes are kept.

In reality the tiny camper has been designed for a couple — who are probably at a point around early retirement age — who are lithe and slim and who like to go trekking and so it doesn't always easily fit two six foot men in. Regardless it still beats how they _used_ to have to travel, before Dean had won the thing in a late night poker game and when the pair of them had schlepped across the country flagging rides down, or else in a succession of traded crappy cars. Back then they had slept beneath the stars or on cold floors and had never once lamented their nomadic sort of lives, but having their own set of wheels and a _safe space_ had been a pretty welcome change –

Especially for Dean.

Even so the minute little camper has issues; with moving about freely at the top of that list and it's the reason why Roman blows a grumbly little curse out as he moves towards the bed space and nearly bangs his damn head, then _does _bang his elbow on the corner of the platform which showers his nerve endings and turns them briefly numb.

"_Damn_."

For his matchups Roman tends to wear a tactical vest top, because it gives him some protection and makes him look strong. Not to mention that's different from the rest of the circuit, who are overweight for the most part yet like to strut around in trunks. He and Dean both prefer the _fully dressed_ vibe because it means that if they need to, they can get away fast and so therefore is a good choice for a myriad of reasons. Including Dean's affinity for pissing people off.

By the time Roman has bumped himself against the cupboards a billion more times and cracked his kneecaps on the steps to the bed, he is ready for the fight and so is his teammate who is still clad in his jacket which is fully zippered up.

Roman lifts a baffled looking brow,

"You cold?"

"Huh? _Oh_ – uh – I mean, it _is_ the middle of winter. Wouldn't want my nipples to like, poke out, y' know?"

Dean waves a hand then throws a chuckled laugh out, but one of the cocky ones he does when he's fired up and working on crazy and which isn't a good thing and in _fact_ tends to usually spell disaster looming up. Except that before Roman can _say_ that exactly, their tiny camper door is hammered by a knock and Dean flings it open nearly taking out their caller, who turns out to be the _other_ old guy from before.

He is brief with his words,

"Heads up, your guy is on next."

"Sure thing man, thanks for keepin' us in the loop."

Behind them in the background there is the sound of lusty cheering and the rumble of bodies being thrown down hard and it sparks a burst of energy through them jointly, even though it isn't the battered blonde's turn to fight. Moving across the camper only takes about two seconds, because the thing is just so god damn small, but Roman does it then puts a hand on the messy hairline before ruffling it a little to brush the building tension out.

"Easy uce, okay? Take it easy."

Dean in return drops down his shoulders a touch, although he still flicks his head shoulder to shoulder with impatience and then cracks his knuckles for extra good effect, while the elderly armed man peers frowning inside,

"Hey now. Where's your pretty girl at fellers?"

"She's late but she'll be here," Roman answers this time, fearing that the copper blonde might respond with violence if forced into trying to explain it _another_ damn time and to further remove that very distinct prospect, he puts a hand on Dean's nape and then propels him ahead, pushing him right down the steps of the camper and into the frigid night air past the guard.

Dean grumbles as they move,

"Weather beaten old codger – ,"

Roman palms his neckline,

"I know uce, I know."

Beyond the rows of vehicles there is more chain link fencing, which the shambling older man bustles past them to unlock and which spits them out at the back of the building which obviously functions both as venue and farm. There is a tiny back entry painted sloppily in black tar pitch, which has been left propped open with torn off car door and they step through it past a very tattered looking curtain, into a partitioned area that seems to constitute _backstage_.

Dean snorts wryly,

"Look at this, huh? _Real_ fancy."

He gestures laconically to a high hay bale wall, which is screening the wrestlers that are waiting to head out there from the loud and excitable _baying for blood_ crowd. In fact it seems surprising to hear that many voices, given that the converted arena-barn isn't huge and so the noise makes it seem like the whole _town_ has turned up.

Roman cracks his fingers.

Maybe they have.

From a spot by the gap in the dangerously stacked hay bales, a man with a clipboard and scrawled piece of paper comes trudging up, nudging the brim of his trucker's cap warily and then peering at the both of them in measures of concern,

"Hey, where's your girl?"

Dean lets a huffy growl out, then throws his eyes up so high that they hang there for a while, like the bright blue orbs have moved beyond gravity to circle the planet like a proverbial sun. He chews a little harder on the stick of gum he's working on but at the same manages to stiffly set his jaw.

He throws a narrow smirk back,

"Yeah yeah man, don't sweat it – I promised you some leg an' that's what you're gonna get."

Behind them a figure staggers in through the hay bales moving on what look like a _drunken_ set of limbs but which are probably a result of all the blood his face is wearing, which is freaking out the redhead that is holding him up. She's dressed in a tiny pair of shorts that seem illegal and a top that has been ripped to show her ample assets off and then tied in a bow that is dangerously loosening as they tumble in having evidently lost their evening match.

For a moment the man with the clipboard merely watches them, before looking away and shaking his head, which makes his long wispy grey beard scrape the paper top and then flutter as he blows out a long suffering sort of breath,

"Blood. Gonna have to get the ring cleaned up now."

He snaps his fingers and a kid with a bucket and a ratty looking broom leaps up from a stool and then eagerly beetles out into the arena, which is greeted by a cheer and then a series of _whoops_. Dean cocks his head to the side and lifts a brow up,

"Animals sound like they're good an' lively tonight."

"Which is _why_ they need somethin' nice they can look at, so your ass had better deliver some _boy_."

Roman bristles at the nickname on instinct, because the pre-fight adrenaline is pumping pretty hard, but also because people snapping at his partner isn't something he stands for any time or any place. As the boy with the blood covered broom scuttles back again, Dean reaches over and gives his teammate a cooling pat, slapping his palm against the firmly padded vest top and then grinning at the promoter.

"I'm a man of my word."

From out behind the hay bales the crowd is growing restless and a bottle of what they all hope is beer breaks the gap and then explodes in a shower of glass around the backstage before plastering the bloodied guy with something yellow and strong.

Nice.

In response to the proximity, the redhead screams at it and it appears that neither one of them is having a good night and clearly sensing that a mutiny is possible, the bearded showrunner nods briskly, with few options left,

"Well, you're on."

He tries to grab at Dean as the pair saunter past him, like he's moving to threaten him one final time, but the copper blonde merely pulls out of reach easily and flaps an airy hand in his face,

"I know man, _tits_."

Roman hovers for a second beside the hay bales but then moves the moment his teammate is at his back and they step out together into the bright but buzzing lighting, to cheers and lusty bellowing through a pitchy megaphone.

"Next up this evening in a match scheduled for one fall. Weighing in at two hundred and sixty five pounds, _Roman Reigns_ – ,"

Fans press hard and whoop loudly behind the barricades — which seem to have been made from lengths of twisted chicken wire — and stretch out pawing hands to pat the big Samoan's shoulder as Dean falls back to let his uce bask in the glow.

Hoping briskly up onto the apron makes the ring flex beneath them as they swing between the ropes then bump like they are stood on a damn children's trampoline when Roman climbs up the ring posts and then throws his fists up, engendering a roar of approval from the audience. Aside from the occasional plaintive shout of –

_Where's the girl_?

Luckily on that front their opponent has them covered, since he swans out to ringside with a tall blonde girl, who possess a look could turn milk sour and the kind of narrowed gaze that seems to loathe everyone. _He_ on the other hand is weirdly sort of grinning, like some idiot foreign dignitary on a political tour and waving his hand as if the crowd is throwing roses, instead of hurled insults and bottles of strong piss. His name is Rusev and the guy is a _monster_, or at least in terms of roundness since he's not very tall and has presumably lost several inches off his stature, from all the body fat pulling him down. In fact the ring flexes so much as he enters that Dean decides it's best to get out, pumping his closed fists in solidarity to his brother's, before hopping back onto the beer sprinkled floor.

_Ding ding_.

"Hit him – ,"

"Rip his damn ears off – ,"

"Punch him, punch him right in the face – ,"

Yep. It sure is a pretty rowdy crowd alright, but they make little difference to the men in the ring, circling one another silently and quickly and effectively sizing the other one up.

Rusev moves first with a sudden swinging forearm which Roman blocks easily then replies to with a hit, which may not be the whole _woo punch him in the face_ deal, but still sends up a smack sound that makes people wince and briefly knocks the spit clean out of the bulky man, as his bitchy blonde girlfriend promptly pitches a fit.

"Kill him already, _vot_ are you _vaiting_ for?"

Her accent is strong and full of eager sounding threats, which make Dean grateful that he _couldn't_ find a valet since he's pretty sure the blonde would have beaten her to death. From behind the makeshift hay bale curtain, the promoter is still expecting said _unknown woman_ to show up and based on his look, it's entirely possible that their payment will be withheld without that vitally important part.

Dean blinks at a clatter as Rusev hits the matting after one hell of a hammering clothesline from his fired up uce and then clambers to his feet into a second, then third one that Roman tries to follow up on with a superman punch. He hammers the ground and the entire ring trembles which Dean can't help but beam broadly at, but the expression fades fast as his brother gets hang time but is then caught by his opponent –

As in literally _caught_.

Dean gapes as the blonde woman claps her palms gleefully and then jumps up and down until her breasts half tumble out, at which point every living man there with eyeballs stops watching and focuses on the bouncing boobs.

_Christ_.

Looking up again at an angry sounding bellow, finds Roman laying blow after blow on Rusev's head, the bear hug essentially giving him a pedestal from which he can accurately target his attack. In response to it the larger man drops him with a grumble, then lifts up his hands in an attempt to save his skull, but which leaves him open to a spear into the ring post that makes the audience inhale as one,

"_Oooooh_."

Roman is cocking his fist for another knockout and is crouched ready and waiting for his opponent to get back up and the whole crappy barn is whooping and hollering and positively _screaming_ for the beating to go down. Honestly, it seems like the whole thing is over and might even be were it not for the blonde, who suddenly bursts round before Dean can even sense it and grabs hold of Roman's foot so the big man can't move.

"Oh _hell_ no, nuh uh, sorry sweet cheeks, not happenin'."

Dean is on the case in the time it takes to blink and on seeing him coming the bitchy woman puts her hands up and then backs away grinning like the harridan she is.

"_Vot_ tough guy, _vot_?"

Everyone is watching them and waiting with baited breath, because some things just aren't done, up to and including laying hands on a woman. Or at least it is _supposed_ to be an unwritten rule. Naturally though, not everyone sticks to it and there's a certain sort of tension to see which way things will go. In fact, even the promoter is staring intently and in the moment it seems to time to reveal his genius plan.

Bastard wants tits and ass?

He's gonna get them.

Dean's pulls down his zipper and lets the jacket fall off, then quickly unhooks the buttons on his pant fronts before pushing the dark denim down around his knees. Roman stares back at him and then so too does everyone, because he's standing at the ringside –

Dressed like a girl.

For a second it is clear that no one knows what they're looking at, which includes the two brawlers who are frozen in the ring. Roman screws his brows up so his face all but crumples and then casts brown eyes over him with a head shake.

_What the hell_?

Dean is wearing a glittery tube top that doesn't particularly fit him at all and as a result curls up beneath his pectorals, so that his stomach and navel are entirely on show. His legs are covered by a tiny little mini skirt, which his long length boxers peek out from below and it is clear to his larger and long suffering teammate that _this_ is the copper blonde's _tits and ass_ plan. Nor does he seem to be remotely abashed by it, since instead he just stands and laps up the stares, which for anyone else would be a mortifying moment –

But there is Dean Ambrose, hamming it up without a care.

"_Vot_ is _zis_?"

Bitchy blonde goes supersonic and it makes the copper blonde throw his head back and _laugh_ and although his turn in drag could easily backfire, the stupidity of it all draws a chuckle from the crowd. Maybe only one or two to begin with, but gradually the general amusement ripples round, then promptly grows into a roar of bawling laughter as Dean squashes his pecs together and makes an actual _cleavage_ of sorts.

Roman blinks.

His brother is categorically not normal, but possibly in the very _best_ kind of way, because he is likely to be the only human in existence who can be quiet one moment and then so _out there_ the next. Plus he is definitely the only human in existence who would risk an actual lynching just to score them some food.

_Dean, Dean, Dean_.

His brother.

His family.

Rusev is standing simply gaping in shock and the sheer confusion is so utterly overwhelming that he has totally forgotten they are even in a match and is instead likely wondering where the hell Dean bought the clothes from. Although on that front he definitely isn't alone. Still, Roman figures the sketchy details can come later and so bounces off the ropes without so much as a thought, locking his arm as he takes to the ether and then laying down his superman punch with a roar.

_One, two, three_.

In a blink the match is over and Dean is shucking back into his trusty jeans again, but grinning with that biting on the tip of his tongue deal, that he only does when he's happy or totally amused. Stooping he hauls up his precious leather jacket and holds it to his chest like he's bashful of the looks and the packed out arena goes crazy and bellows, because the match is pretty much the weirdest shit the barn has seen.

The bitchy blonde screech owl slides under the ring ropes and props up the head of her severely battered beau, while making sure to glare all out _daggers_ in Dean's direction, which he replies to by throwing her a cheery little wink.

Romans swings down and then stops for a moment, merely staring across the distance before letting loose a smirk and then shaking his head as he fights down a chuckle before tousling the hair as his brother slopes in close.

"Come on crazy, let's go get us some grub here."

Dean turns around and bows to the crowd, before licking his index finger like an absolute jackass, then pulling down the tube top to rub one nipple with the tip, which triggers another burst of total hilarity and then more worryingly a yell of –

_Take it all off_.

Roman slides his hand swiftly down to Dean's neckline and then hauls him briskly away backstage again, because the last thing they need is any further revelations.

He's grinning in spite of it though.

He can't hide the grin.

The first thing they see on strutting back through the hay bales, is the grey bearded promoter fully _balking_ at them, like they have somehow in the meantime sprouted eight faces and slimy green tentacles in the place of their limbs.

Dean puts his hand out,

"See? Tits an' ass man. Looks like we'll be havin' our food an' fuel now."

Roman assumes there is going to be an argument, but is stunned when the gaping man simply nods his head and then blinks in bewilderment towards the small _bloodied mop boy_, who is equally stunned and quite possibly scarred for life.

"Uh, Clint? Get these – _men_ here their payment for the evening."

Neither one of them takes their eyes off Dean the whole time and it occurs to Roman mildly that they seem lightly scared of him, like they're not sure how to cope with a human being his brand of wild.

Dean merely looks back and wiggles his eyebrows.

Unbelievable –

He is _proud_ of himself.

In response the kid with the mop skitters past them and the copper blonde turns to follow him through the barn, practically parting the other competitors like some biblical hero parting the sea, since nobody clearly wants anything to do with him. Which works in their favor.

Well, just this once.

Their payment for the evening is kept in a small shack located in the dark around the back of the barn and protected – loose term – by another old timer, who is fast asleep in a chair and basically cradling his gun. On hearing a crunch of thick boot soles on asphalt, he lurches into wakefulness with fumbling thumbs that make Roman instinctively reach forward for Dean's t-shirt, before sliding off the sequined tube top with a grunt.

_Damn_.

Luckily however instead of shooting wildly at them, the geriatric guard simply thumbs up his cap and squints through the darkness for several long seconds before blowing out a breath,

"Clint? You startled me son."

"S-sorry."

It's difficult to say why the poor kid is stuttering, but it's possibly because the fresh night air is bitter cold, or else because he is standing in the darkness with two strangers.

Half of whom are dressed like a girl.

"Tryin' a give me a god damn heart attack," the older man turns with a grumble towards the doors and then roots a key from the depths of his pockets, which he uses to unhook a thick padlock with a _click_, before wrestling the doors to the shack fully open and then bungling his attempt to strike a damn match.

Dean rolls his eyes and then steps forwards,

"C'mon man, some of us are freezin' our nipples off out here."

"Calm down sonny, I'm goin' fast as I can manage."

In response to the rejoinder the copper blonde reaches in and then uses the vague light spilling from the moonshine to drag across the match head and draw a sudden flame. It blazes for a second and blinds them all briefly before settling back down to a comfortable burn and the old man hustles down a lamp that looks ancient and so is therefore probably the same age as him.

Dean lights the gas and _hey presto_ they can see again and evidently for the first time the old guard can see _Dean_, since his poor cloudy eyes grow as wide as damn saucers and he splutters in confusion,

"What in the world – ,"

Dean takes the lantern and the pushes in past him,

"Thanks pops. We can take it from here."

Once again his way with words is nothing short of legendary, but the mop boy and old timer let him sweep in all the same and then watch in astonishment as he studies the contents of what are tens or dozens of dusty, packed shelves. Filling them are hundreds of cans of processed food stuffs as well as the rare wonder of a tinned fruit dessert and the copper blonde wastes no time in picking out items and then bundling them clumsily into his arms.

The old timer finally tracks down his vocal cords with a rough sounding cough,

"You only get ten."

Dean largely ignores him but looks across to his partner who is still stood in the doorway, letting him be the one to choose and also trying to ignore the sparkles, as the sequins of the tube top glitter in the light.

"Uce?"

"Huh?"

"You want beef or pork this time?"

Roman shakes his head back in brotherly indifference and then snorted fondly at _Deanna_,

"You choose."

Beside him the young boy who has been chosen as their minder slips by him and starts to fill up a plastic spouted tank, siphoning gas from a drum in the corner which splashes out messily with a head spinning smell.

"'Kay, m' good."

Dean saunters back past him, juggling balanced cans without a care in the world, although he can't help the way that his shoulders tremble badly as his only half-clad body steps back out into the chill. His reappearance makes the older man slam back against the doorway, like contact might pass on whatever Dean has got and Roman snorts lightly and wants to tell him not to worry and that while _crazy_ is severe, you can't catch it that way. Instead however he merely takes the offered gas tank as the wide eyed errand boy swiftly hands it across and then follows his brother back out of the storehouse and back towards their camper.

Dean has ditched the guttering lamp.

By the time he has made it right the way across the compound, the scruffy younger man has already unlocked and hopped aboard and Roman finds him knelt half across the mattress, hunting down extra layers from the cupboards,

"_Fuck _it's cold."

"Well that's what you get when you dress like a – ,"

"Careful uce, I'll have you know that I'm a classy kinda gal."

The tube top flings across the small space between them and then lands in a glittering heap at Roman's feet and he pauses for a second and then nudges it out the doorway and down the camper steps onto the unforgiving ground. Dean doesn't see it because he is pulling on a sweater and frankly shivering himself up a storm, besides which he can't possibly want to _keep_ the damn thing and so Roman slams the door shut and blows a breath out,

"Let's go."

They rumble out of the compound two minutes later, having left near enough the whole town scratching their heads, but with enough food and fuel to keep themselves going. Well, at least until they get to the next show.

Whatever it is.

Dean sighs wryly and Roman looks across at him, brows narrowed in outright suspicion at his friend, because he knows the man better than he knows _himself_ these days and the noise is a prelude to something unknown,

"What?"

Dean shrugs,

"I kinda miss all the sequins, they made my chest look all _sparkly_ y' know?"

In the background their skillet falls back onto the floor again and the clatter makes the bigger man roll his eyes as he shifts gear.

Life with Dean Ambrose is nothing if not crazy.

Still, that's how he likes it.

"Yeah uce, I know."


End file.
